November 17.

I’ve buried my babies one by one,And dug the deep hole for Joan,And cover’d the faces of kith and kin,And felt the old church-yard stoneGo cold to my heart, full many a time,But I never felt so lone.For the lion and Adam were company,And the tiger him beguiled;But the simple kine are foes to my life,And the household brutes are wild.If the veriest cur would lick my handI could love it like a child!

For the lion and Adam were company,And the tiger him beguiled;But the simple kine are foes to my life,And the household brutes are wild.If the veriest cur would lick my handI could love it like a child!

Mr. Hood’s pen essays “Walton Redivivus:A New River Eclogue.”

“[Piscator is fishing—near the sir Hugh Middleton’s Head, without either basket or can. Viator cometh up to him, with an angling-rod and a bottle.]”

It is prefaced by a citation “From a Letter of C. Lamb,” in these words:—“My old New River has presented no extraordinary novelties lately. But there Hope sits, day after day, speculating on traditionary gudgeons. I think she hath taken the fisheries. I now know the reasons why our forefathers were denominated East and West Angles. Yet is there no lack of spawn, for I wash my hands in fishets that come through the pump, every morning, thick as motelings—little things that perish untimely, and never taste the brook.”

To face this “Eclogue” there is a motto, “My banks they are furnished,” beneath a whole length figure,solike “poor Jemmy Whittle!”—only not looking so good natured.

“Love me, love my dog,” is a fearfulcut—Mr. Hood’s step-mother, and her precious “Bijou”—with a story, and a tail-piece—“O list unto my tale of woe,”—unnaturally natural.

One of the best pieces in the volume is “The Irish Schoolmaster,” who, from a clay cabin, “the College of Kilreen,” hangs out a board, “with painted letters red as blood,” announcing “Children taken in to bate.”

Six babes he sways,—some little and some big,Divided into classes six;—alsoe,He keeps a parlour boarder of a pig,That in the college fareth to and fro,And picketh up the urchins’ crumbs belowAnd eke the learned rudiments they scan,And thus his A, B, C doth wisely know,—Hereafter to be shown in caravan,And raise the wonderment of many a learned man.Alsoe, he schools some tame familiar fowls,Whereof, above his head, some two or threeSit darkly squatting, like Minerva’s owls,But on the branches of no living tree,And overlook the learned family;While, sometimes, Partlet, from her gloomy perch,Drops feather on the nose of Dominie,Meanwhile, with serious eye, he makes researchIn leaves of that sour tree of knowledge—now a birch.*******Now, by the creeping shadows of the moon,The hour is come to lay aside their lore;The cheerful pedagogue perceives it soon,And cries, “Begone!” unto the imps,—and fourSnatch their two hats and struggle for the door,Like ardent spirits vented from a cask,All blythe and boisterous,—but leave two more,With Reading made Uneasy for a task,To weep, whilst all their mates in merry sunshine bask,Like sportive elfins on the verdant sod,With tender moss so sleekly overgrown,That doth not hurt, but kiss, the sole unshod,So soothely kind is Erin to her own!And one, at hare and hound, plays all alone,—For Phelim’s gone to tend his step-dame’s cow;Ah! Phelim’s step-dame is a canker’d crone!Whilst other twain play at an Irish row,And, with shillelah small, break one another’s brow!But careful Dominie, with ceaseless thrift,Now changeth ferula for rural hoe;But, first of all, with tender hand doth shiftHis college gown, because of solar glow,And hangs it on a bush to scare the crow:Meanwhile, he plants in earth the dappled bean,Or trains the young potatoes all a-row,Or plucks the fragrant leek for pottage green,With that crisp curly herb, call’d Kale in Aberdeen.And so he wisely spends the fruitful hours,Linked each to each by labours, like a bee;Or rules in learning’s hall, or trims her bow’rs;—Would there were many more such wights as he,To sway each capital academieOf Cam and Isis; for, alack! at eachThere dwells, I wot, some dronish Dominie,That does no garden work, nor yet doth teach,But wears a floury head, and talks in flow’ry speech!

Alsoe, he schools some tame familiar fowls,Whereof, above his head, some two or threeSit darkly squatting, like Minerva’s owls,But on the branches of no living tree,And overlook the learned family;While, sometimes, Partlet, from her gloomy perch,Drops feather on the nose of Dominie,Meanwhile, with serious eye, he makes researchIn leaves of that sour tree of knowledge—now a birch.

*******

Now, by the creeping shadows of the moon,The hour is come to lay aside their lore;The cheerful pedagogue perceives it soon,And cries, “Begone!” unto the imps,—and fourSnatch their two hats and struggle for the door,Like ardent spirits vented from a cask,All blythe and boisterous,—but leave two more,With Reading made Uneasy for a task,To weep, whilst all their mates in merry sunshine bask,

Like sportive elfins on the verdant sod,With tender moss so sleekly overgrown,That doth not hurt, but kiss, the sole unshod,So soothely kind is Erin to her own!And one, at hare and hound, plays all alone,—For Phelim’s gone to tend his step-dame’s cow;Ah! Phelim’s step-dame is a canker’d crone!Whilst other twain play at an Irish row,And, with shillelah small, break one another’s brow!

But careful Dominie, with ceaseless thrift,Now changeth ferula for rural hoe;But, first of all, with tender hand doth shiftHis college gown, because of solar glow,And hangs it on a bush to scare the crow:Meanwhile, he plants in earth the dappled bean,Or trains the young potatoes all a-row,Or plucks the fragrant leek for pottage green,With that crisp curly herb, call’d Kale in Aberdeen.

And so he wisely spends the fruitful hours,Linked each to each by labours, like a bee;Or rules in learning’s hall, or trims her bow’rs;—Would there were many more such wights as he,To sway each capital academieOf Cam and Isis; for, alack! at eachThere dwells, I wot, some dronish Dominie,That does no garden work, nor yet doth teach,But wears a floury head, and talks in flow’ry speech!

For the entire of the subjects already extracted from, and for many others not adverted to, even by name, reference should be had to the work itself. There is onedesign, however, so excellent a specimen of Mr. Hood’s clear conception and decisive execution, that merely in further illustration of his talent it is here introduced.

“Very deaf, indeed.”

An engraving of Mr. Hood’s admirable “Parish Beadle,” from his “Progress of Cant,” was inserted in an account of that print onp. 130of the present volume of theEvery-Day Book. Great as was the merit of that print, in point of wit and humour, and curious as it will always be regarded for its multiform developement of character, and relationship to the manners of the age, yet it is largely exceeded, in these respects, by the volume of “Whims and Oddities.” Possessing the rare talent, of illustrating what he writes by his own drawings, Mr. Hood is to be esteemed in a twofold capacity. He has, withall, the remarkable merit of having acquired his knowledge of art by his own teaching; and, what augurs well, the praise which the “Progress of Cant” deserved and obtained, has wholesomely invigorated him to higher mastery. There is a firmness of execution in the designs to the “Whims and Oddities,” surprisingly superior to the general manner of his meritorious etching just mentioned. The book is altogether the most original that the press of late years has produced; and, luckily, it comes like a seasonable visiter, to raise shouts of laughter “round about the coal-fire” in cold weather.

[500]The varieties and causes of these phenomena are described in Dr. Forster’s “Researches about Atmospheric Phenomena,” 3d edition, p. 98.[501]“Whims and Oddities, in Prose and Verse; with forty original designs by Thomas Hood, one of the authors of ‘Odes and Addresses to Great People,’ and the designer of the Progress of Cant, London, Relfe, 1826.” 12mo. 10s.6d.

[500]The varieties and causes of these phenomena are described in Dr. Forster’s “Researches about Atmospheric Phenomena,” 3d edition, p. 98.

[501]“Whims and Oddities, in Prose and Verse; with forty original designs by Thomas Hood, one of the authors of ‘Odes and Addresses to Great People,’ and the designer of the Progress of Cant, London, Relfe, 1826.” 12mo. 10s.6d.

His name is in the church of England calendar and almanacs on this day, which was ordained his festival by the Romish church, wherein he is honoured as a saint.

St. Hugh was born in Burgundy in 1140, educated in a convent, took the habit of the Chartreuse near Grenoble before he was of age, was ordained priest, and, at the end of ten years, the procuratorship of the monastery was intrusted to him. Henry II. of England, confiding in his prudence and sanctity, induced him to come over and regulate the new monastery of Carthusians, founded by the king at Witham in Somersetshire, which was the first of that order established in England. He was consecrated bishop of Lincoln, 21st September, 1186, exerted his episcopal authority to restore ecclesiastical discipline, especially amongst his clergy, and maintained the claims of the church against the crown itself. In quality of ambassador from king John, he went to France and negotiated a peace; on his return he was seized with a fever, presumed to have been occasioned by his abstemiousness, and died at London, on blessed ashes strewed on the floor, as he directed, in the form of a cross, on the 17th of November, 1200. His body was embalmed, and conveyed with great pomp to Lincoln, where it was met by king John of England and king William of Scotland, with three archbishops, fourteen bishops, above a hundred abbots, and a great number of earls and barons. The two kings put their shoulders under the bier as it was carried into the church.

Alban Butler, from whom these particulars are derived, affirms that three paralytic persons, and some others, recovered their health at St. Hugh’s tomb. He further relates, that, during the saint’s life time, Henry II., being on his way from Normandy to England, in a furious storm, prayed for mercy, through the merits and intercession of St. Hugh, whereon a calm ensued, and the voyage was made in safety.

The Untombed Mariners.An incident really witnessed inthe Bay of Biscay.The waves roll’d long and highIn the fathomless Biscay,And the rising breeze swept sullen by,And the day closed heavily.Our ship was tight and brave,Well trimm’d and sailing free,And she flew along on the mountain wave,An eagle of the sea.The red cross fluttering yet,We lower’d the noble sign,For the bell had struck, it was past sunset,And the moon began to shine.Her light was fitful, flungFrom a sky of angry gloom,Thick hurrying clouds o’er the waters hung,Their hue was of the tomb.Yet now and then a gleamBroke through of her silent ray,And lit around with her soften’d beamSome spot of that plumbless bay.O’er the bulwark’s side we heardThe proud ship break the spray,While her shrouds and sheets by the wild winds stirr’d,Made music mournfully.And we talk’d of battles past,Of shipwreck, rock, and shore,Of ports where peril or chance had castOur sail the wide world o’er.The watch look’d by the lee,A shapeless log was seen,A helmless ship it appear’d to be,And it lay the waves between.Oh ’twas a fearful sightThat helpless thing to see,Swimming mastless and lone at high midnightA corps on the black, black sea!There were souls, perchance, on board,And heaving yet their breath,Men whose cry, amid their despair, was heardNot to meet ocean-death.Our chief on deck up sprung,We lay too in that hollow deep—Below, as our voices and trampling rung,The sleepers sprang from sleep.The boat we loosed and lower’d,There were gallant hearts to go,The dark clouds broke that the moon embower’d,And her lights shone cheering through.And we watch’d that little boatPull up the mountain wave,Then sink from view, like a name forgot,Within an ancient grave.They go—they climb the hull,As the waters wash the deck,They shout, and they hear but the billows dullStrike on that lonely wreck.The skeletons of menLay blanch’d and marrowless there,But clothed in their living garb, as whenThat ’reft ship was their care.Lash’d to their planks they lay,The ropes still round them tied,Though drifted long leagues in that stormy bay,Since they hoped, despaired, and died.Tombless in their decay,Mid the watery solitude,Days dawn’d upon them and faded away,Cold moons their death-sleep view’d.Their names no trace may tell,Nor whither their passage bound,And our seamen leave the desolate hullWith death and darkness round.They tread their deck again,And silent hoist their boat—They think of the fate of the unknown menWho for years may wildly float.Those bones, that ocean bier,They well may sadly see,For they feel that the gallant ship they steer,Theirsepulchre may be.There is grief for beauty’s woe,Laurels strew the hero’s hearse—Are there none will the generous tear bestowFor those untomb’dmariners![502]

The Untombed Mariners.

An incident really witnessed inthe Bay of Biscay.

The waves roll’d long and highIn the fathomless Biscay,And the rising breeze swept sullen by,And the day closed heavily.Our ship was tight and brave,Well trimm’d and sailing free,And she flew along on the mountain wave,An eagle of the sea.The red cross fluttering yet,We lower’d the noble sign,For the bell had struck, it was past sunset,And the moon began to shine.Her light was fitful, flungFrom a sky of angry gloom,Thick hurrying clouds o’er the waters hung,Their hue was of the tomb.Yet now and then a gleamBroke through of her silent ray,And lit around with her soften’d beamSome spot of that plumbless bay.O’er the bulwark’s side we heardThe proud ship break the spray,While her shrouds and sheets by the wild winds stirr’d,Made music mournfully.And we talk’d of battles past,Of shipwreck, rock, and shore,Of ports where peril or chance had castOur sail the wide world o’er.The watch look’d by the lee,A shapeless log was seen,A helmless ship it appear’d to be,And it lay the waves between.Oh ’twas a fearful sightThat helpless thing to see,Swimming mastless and lone at high midnightA corps on the black, black sea!There were souls, perchance, on board,And heaving yet their breath,Men whose cry, amid their despair, was heardNot to meet ocean-death.Our chief on deck up sprung,We lay too in that hollow deep—Below, as our voices and trampling rung,The sleepers sprang from sleep.The boat we loosed and lower’d,There were gallant hearts to go,The dark clouds broke that the moon embower’d,And her lights shone cheering through.And we watch’d that little boatPull up the mountain wave,Then sink from view, like a name forgot,Within an ancient grave.They go—they climb the hull,As the waters wash the deck,They shout, and they hear but the billows dullStrike on that lonely wreck.The skeletons of menLay blanch’d and marrowless there,But clothed in their living garb, as whenThat ’reft ship was their care.Lash’d to their planks they lay,The ropes still round them tied,Though drifted long leagues in that stormy bay,Since they hoped, despaired, and died.Tombless in their decay,Mid the watery solitude,Days dawn’d upon them and faded away,Cold moons their death-sleep view’d.Their names no trace may tell,Nor whither their passage bound,And our seamen leave the desolate hullWith death and darkness round.They tread their deck again,And silent hoist their boat—They think of the fate of the unknown menWho for years may wildly float.Those bones, that ocean bier,They well may sadly see,For they feel that the gallant ship they steer,Theirsepulchre may be.There is grief for beauty’s woe,Laurels strew the hero’s hearse—Are there none will the generous tear bestowFor those untomb’dmariners![502]

The waves roll’d long and highIn the fathomless Biscay,And the rising breeze swept sullen by,And the day closed heavily.

Our ship was tight and brave,Well trimm’d and sailing free,And she flew along on the mountain wave,An eagle of the sea.

The red cross fluttering yet,We lower’d the noble sign,For the bell had struck, it was past sunset,And the moon began to shine.

Her light was fitful, flungFrom a sky of angry gloom,Thick hurrying clouds o’er the waters hung,Their hue was of the tomb.

Yet now and then a gleamBroke through of her silent ray,And lit around with her soften’d beamSome spot of that plumbless bay.

O’er the bulwark’s side we heardThe proud ship break the spray,While her shrouds and sheets by the wild winds stirr’d,Made music mournfully.

And we talk’d of battles past,Of shipwreck, rock, and shore,Of ports where peril or chance had castOur sail the wide world o’er.

The watch look’d by the lee,A shapeless log was seen,A helmless ship it appear’d to be,And it lay the waves between.

Oh ’twas a fearful sightThat helpless thing to see,Swimming mastless and lone at high midnightA corps on the black, black sea!

There were souls, perchance, on board,And heaving yet their breath,Men whose cry, amid their despair, was heardNot to meet ocean-death.

Our chief on deck up sprung,We lay too in that hollow deep—Below, as our voices and trampling rung,The sleepers sprang from sleep.

The boat we loosed and lower’d,There were gallant hearts to go,The dark clouds broke that the moon embower’d,And her lights shone cheering through.

And we watch’d that little boatPull up the mountain wave,Then sink from view, like a name forgot,Within an ancient grave.

They go—they climb the hull,As the waters wash the deck,They shout, and they hear but the billows dullStrike on that lonely wreck.

The skeletons of menLay blanch’d and marrowless there,But clothed in their living garb, as whenThat ’reft ship was their care.

Lash’d to their planks they lay,The ropes still round them tied,Though drifted long leagues in that stormy bay,Since they hoped, despaired, and died.

Tombless in their decay,Mid the watery solitude,Days dawn’d upon them and faded away,Cold moons their death-sleep view’d.

Their names no trace may tell,Nor whither their passage bound,And our seamen leave the desolate hullWith death and darkness round.

They tread their deck again,And silent hoist their boat—They think of the fate of the unknown menWho for years may wildly float.

Those bones, that ocean bier,They well may sadly see,For they feel that the gallant ship they steer,Theirsepulchre may be.

There is grief for beauty’s woe,Laurels strew the hero’s hearse—Are there none will the generous tear bestowFor those untomb’dmariners![502]

Mean Temperature 42·02.

[502]New Monthly Magazine.

On the 18th of November, 1777, died William Bowyer, an eminent printer of London, where he was born on the 17th of December, 1699. He had been always subject to a bilious colic, and for the last ten years of his life was afflicted with the palsy; yet he retained a remarkable cheerfulness of disposition, and his faculties, though somewhat impaired, enabled him to maintain the conversation of his literary friends, pursue a course of incessant reading, which was his principal amusement, and correct the learned works, especially the Greek books, printed at his press. Within a few weeks before his death, he sunk under his maladies and the progress of decay. His numerous critical writings afford ample evidence of his ability as a scholar; and as a learned printer, he had no rival for more than half a century. Of his regard to religion and morals, both in principle and practice, his whole life bore unquestionable evidence. His probity was inflexible. The promptitude with which he relieved every species of distress, and his modesty in endeavouring to conceal his benefactions, marked the benevolence and delicacy of his disposition. In the decline of life, and in his testamentary arrangements, he seems to have been influenced by a regard to two great objects; one was to repay the benefactions which had been conferred on his father at a time when he peculiarly needed assistance, and the other was to be himself a benefactor to the meritorious in his own profession. By his will, after liberally providing for his only surviving son, and allotting various private bequests, he appropriated several sums to “the benefit of printing,” particularly with a view to the relief of aged printers, compositors or pressmen, and to the encouragement of the journeyman compositor, whom he particularly describes, and who is required to be capable of reading and construing Latin, and, at least, of reading Greek fluently with accents. These latter bequests he committed to the direction and disposal of the master, wardens, and assistants of the Company of Stationers.

Mr. Bowyer was buried, agreeably to his own direction, at Low-Layton, in Essex, and a monument erected, at the expense of his friend, Mr. Nichols, to his father’s memory and his own, with a Latin inscription written by himself. There is a bust of him in Stationers’-hall, with an English inscription annexed, in his own words: and beside it are a portrait of his father, and another of his patron, Mr. Nelson, all presented to the Company by Mr. Nichols, who was his apprentice, partner, and successor; and who has done ample justice to his eminent predecessor’s memory, by an invaluable series of “Anecdotes” of Mr. Bowyer, and many celebrated literary characters of the last and present century, whose persons orwritings Mr. Nichols’s professional labours and varied erudition had acquainted him with.

Mean Temperature 40·82.

On this day in 1703 died, in the Bastille at Paris, an unknown prisoner, celebrated throughout Europe under the appellation of theMan with the Iron Mask; he had been confined, for state reasons, from the year 1661. There have been various disquisitions and controversies respecting his identity, but a recent work seems to have rendered it probable, that he was an Italian diplomatist who counteracted certain projects of Louis XIV., and was therefore condemned, by that monarch’s despotism, to perpetual imprisonment, in an iron mask, for the concealment of his features.

A correspondent is pleased to communicate a series of reminiscences occasioned by accounts in the first volume. They form two interesting articles, viz.

“Pages attend on books as well as lords.”J. R. P.

“Pages attend on books as well as lords.”

J. R. P.

Sir,—It is obvious, that he who reads theEvery-Day Bookwill think of things connected with the contents stated, and wish to append them as memoranda, for the perusal of those interested in the resuscitations of old customs and matters of fact. With this impression, I have collected my stray knowledge, and condensed it in the following compass. Thepagesquoted, refer to thefirstvolume.Ex. g.

122. “Powerful Optical Illusion.” Approaching a lamp in the high road near town, an object crossed my path; it appeared like alarge crab, and, as I drew nearer, ran up the side of a house in the road-way with great velocity. When I reached the lamp, to my satisfaction, I proved this appearance to have been caused by a full-sizedspider, which had passed the light, and made upwards to its web. Had I not accounted for this natural circumstance, I should certainly have considered it as a phenomenon worthy of anxiety.

123. “The Spectre.” A young lady in Bedfordshire, on coming of age, was promised by her father a present of any thing she chose to accept at his hand. She said, A skeleton! Her choice was gratified—a skeleton was sent for from London, and placed in a case in a room accessible to her. The room has ever since gone by the name of the “Stranger’s Room.” “Have you seen? or will you see, the stranger?” is the question put to all visitors. The daughter of Herodias seems to have scarcely exceeded the eccentric taste of this young lady.

136. “St. Agnes’ Eve.” After fasting the whole of the day, upon going to bed an egg must be filled with salt, and eaten, which occasions a great thirst. The vessel the female dreams of drinking from, according to situation and circumstances, denotes who will be her husband.

This charm for theague, on “St. Agnes’ Eve,” is customary to be said up the chimney, by the eldest female in thefamily—

“Tremble and go!First day shiver and burn:Tremble and quake!Second day shiver and learn:Tremble and die!Third day never return.”

179. “Bears” are seen on the Stock Exchange in human shape, natural ones are kept by friseurs to supply grease for the hair. The Black Bear in Piccadilly, Taylor’s Bear in Whitechapel, the White Bear, and the Bear and Ragged Staff, as a punster would say, arebear-ableenough; but, I reprehend the “Dancing Bears” being led through the streets to perform antics for money. Two have appeared this month. Each with two monkeys, a camel, dromedary, and organ. Travellers have told of their sagacity; we believe them: but, that bears are made to stand upon hot iron, and undergo the severest discipline before they are fit for public exhibition, is a truth which harrows the feeling, and makes me wish the dancing bears unmuzzled, and let loose upon those who have the guidance of their education. Theursa majorof the literary hemisphere, Dr. Johnson, might have been a match for them.

207. “St. Blase.” He seems to haveneglected the protecting the “Woolcombers.” Since the introduction of machinery, by Arkwright and others, very little cloth is manufactured by hand. The woolcomber’s greasy and oily wooden horse, the hobby of his livelihood, with the long teeth and pair of cards, are rarely seen. When scribblers, carders, billies, and spinning jennies, came into use, the wheel no longer turned at the cottage door, but a revolution among the working classes gave occasion for soldiers to protect the mills—time, however, has ended this strife with wool, and begun another with cotton.

246. “Pancake Day.” It is asine qua nonat “Tedbury Mop,” before a maid servant is wholly qualified for the farmer’s kitchen, that she make apple fritters, and toss them without soot, or spoiling the batter.

348. “Sadler’s Wells.” It closed this season (1826) with a real benefit for Mrs. Fitzwilliam, October 2d. The new feature has been the horse-racing, in the open air, represented as at Newmarket. Boards were erected on every side, to conceal the race from the public in general, and ensure novelty to the play-going folks in particular. To give publicity to this amusement, the high-mettled racers, with riders, flags and bugles, in proper costume, paraded the environs daily, and distributed bills descriptive of cups, plate, bets, and other taking articles of jockeyship, which took place at evening. The thing did not take so much money as wished.

364. “St. Patrick’s Day” being my natal day, though not of Erin’s clime, I never fail dedicating a largeplum puddingto hissaintship; round my table the “olive branches” spread, and I make this record to encourage all persons to do the same, in remembrance oftheirparent’s solicitude, and the prospective harmony of the young.

402. “Good Friday.” The bun so fashionable, called theSally Lunn, originated with a young woman of that name in Bath, about thirty years ago. She first cried them, in a basket with a white cloth over it, morning and evening. Dalmer, a respectable baker and musician, noticed her, bought her business, and made a song, and set it to music in behalf of “Sally Lunn.” This composition became the street favourite, barrows were made to distribute the nice cakes, Dalmer profited thereby, and retired; and, to this day, theSally Lunncake, not unlike the hotcross bun in flavour, claims preeminence in all the cities in England.

422. “Lifting” is a custom practised with hurdles among shepherds, in the South Downs, at their marriages. The bride and bridegroom are carried round a flock of sheep; a fleece is put for their seat, and may-horns, made of the rind of the sycamore tree, are played by boys and girls. There is another sort of “lifting,” however; I have seen a tale-bearer in the village tossed in a blanket by the maids, as it is represented in “Don Giovanni in London,” a scene in the King’s Bench.

I am, Sir,Your’s sincerely,Jehoiada.

Franklin says, ‘farthings will amount to pounds:—Somemorandumssaved, will books produce.J. R. P.

Franklin says, ‘farthings will amount to pounds:—Somemorandumssaved, will books produce.

J. R. P.

Videlicit.

507. “The Martin.” It is considered a presage of good, for this bird to build its nest in the corner of the bedroom-window; and particularly so, should the first inhabitants return in the season. I know it to be true, that a pair of martins built their nest in the curtains of a bed belonging to Mrs. Overton, of Loverrall, Yorkshire. The nest was suffered to remain unmolested, and access given to it from the air. Six successive seasons the old birds revisited their chosen spot, brought forth their young, and enjoyed their peace, till the death of their most kind benefactress; when a distribution of the furniture taking place, it dislodged the tenants of the wing, which to each of them was not allMihi Beati Martini—“My eye, Betty Martin.”

570. “Milkmaids’ garland.” After I had sailed up the river Wye, and arrived at Chepstow-castle, my attention was arrested by one of the prettiest processions I remember to have enjoyed. It consisted of milkmaids dancing and serenading round an old man, whose few gray hairs were crowned by a wreath of wild flowers; he held a blossomy hawthorn in his right hand, and bore a staff, with cowslips and bluebells, in his left. A cow’s horn hung across his shoulders, which he blew on arriving at a house. The youths and lasses were more than thirty in number. Their arms, and headsand necks, were surrounded by clusters of lilies of the valley, and wild roses. Then came an apple-cheeked dame with a low-crowned, broad-brim hat; she wore spectacles, mittens were drawn up to her elbows, her waist trim, a woollen apron bound it, her petticoat short, blue worsted stockings, a high-heeled pair of shoes with silver buckles, and a broad tongue reposing on each instep. In one hand she held a brass kettle, newly scoured, it was full of cream; in the other, a basket of wood strawberries. To whoever came up to her with a saucer or basin, she gave a portion of her cream and fruit, with the trimmest curtsey I ever saw made by a dainty milkwoman betwixt earth and sky. She was “Aunt Nelly,” and her “Bough Bearer,” called “Uncle Ambrose,” was known for singing a song, “’Twas on one moonshiny night,” which his defective pronunciation lisped “meaun sheeiney.” Ambrose strummed an instrument in his turn, partly harp, and partly hirdy-girdy. Six goats, harnessed in flowers, carried utensils in milking and butter making; and the farmer of the party rode on a bull, also tastily dressed with the produce of the fields and hedges. A cheese and a hatchet were suspended behind him, and he looked proudly as he guided the docile animal to the public-house, into which the milkmaids and their sweethearts went, quickened in their motions by the cat-gut, which made stirring sounds up stairs. The flowery flag was thrust upwardly into the street, facing the iron bridge; and, getting again into the fisherman’s boat, I sailed and loitered down the banks of the river, charmed with what I had seen, felt, and understood. Of the milkmaids, Miss Thomas of Landcote was the darkest, the neatest, and the tallest—she stoodonlyfive feet, ten inches high.

692. “Kiss in the ring.” The ‘kissing crust’ is that part of the loaf which is slightly burnt, and parted from the next loaf: hungry children who go home from the baker’s, know best what it is, by the sly bits they filch from that part denominated the ‘kissing crust.’

807. “Buy a Broom!” Since Bishop harmonised this popular cry, the Flemish girls cry ‘Buy abrush?’ but a greater novelty has arisen in some of them singing glees, quartets, and quintets in the streets. The tune is unconcordant, slow, and grave; these warblers walk in a line down the centre, with their hands crossed before their stomachs. Their simple attitude, together with their sunny cast, and artless glance, render them objects of pity; but the pence fall not so plentily to them as to the real John Bull, straightforward songs of the young weavers that go about with the model of a loom in work, fixed to the top of a rod five feet high.

839. “French pulpit.” The pulpit at Union Chapel, Islington, is made of beautiful grained “Honduras mahogany;” and that of St. Pancras, New-road, of the farfamed “Fairlop oak.”—Wesley and Whitefield were contented to emerge in their first career from the hogsheads of a grocer in Moorfields.

858. “Copenhagen-house.” This year, the Spanish and Italian refugees have resorted to this house in great numbers, and played many famous matches at ball. Nothing can be more retired than the garden formed into bowers for visiters—if the building mania should not recover, age will give the young plantations beauty, pleasure, and effect. Two new roads are made near Copenhagen-house; the one, leading from Kentish-town to Holloway, the other, from the latter to Pentonville. At “the Belvidere” racket is much played, and archery practised at “White Conduit-house.” It is gratifying that the labours of theEvery-Day Bookarenot in vain—the “Conduit” spoken of invol. ii. col. 1203has undergone repair; it is hoped, it will be enclosed by the proprietors as one of the new relics of venerable antiquity.

1435. “Beadles.” The beadle of Camberwell is a lineal descendant of Earl Withrington, of the same name so celebrated in the battle of Chevy Chase.

Jehoiada.

Mean Temperature 40·25.

Edmund. King andMartyr.[503]

On the 20th of November, 1746, fifty-one barbers were convicted before the commissioners of excise, and fined in the penalty of twenty pounds each, for having in their custody hair-powder not madeof starch, contrary to act of parliament; and, on the 27th of the same month, forty-nine other barbers were convicted of the like offence, and fined in the samepenalty.[504]

To the Editor of the Every-Day Book.

Sir,—The following observations have been the result of a visit to the site of the undoubted Roman camp at Pentonville, and the conjectural remains at St. Pancras. Respecting the former, I have been able to ascertain, that in the course of the year 1825 a labourer, who was occupied in digging in the prætorium, turned up a considerable quantity of arrow heads; and shortly afterwards, another labourer, digging a few yards to the south of the same spot, for materials to mend a road, uncovered a pavement of red tiles, about sixteen feet square, each tile being about an inch and a half thick, and about six inches square; they were mostly figured, and some had “strange characters upon them:” unfortunately, the discoverer had neither taste nor curiosity, and they were consigned to the bottom of a deeproad.[505]Respecting the “Brill” (at Pancras) I have examined the ground, and find that S. G. (p. 1347,) is incorrect in stating the prætorium was perfect, half of it having been converted into bricks some months ago; and the brickmakers inform me, that nothing was found, not even a tile or brass coin. I will extract a little respecting this camp from a work of some authority, viz. The Environs of London.

Mr. Lysons, in that work, treats the idea of a camp having been made near this spot as quiteconjectural,[506]and remarks, that Dr. Stukely’s imagination, in the pursuit of a favourite hypothesis, would sometimes enable him to see more than other antiquaries; leaving the language of conjecture, the Dr. points out the disposition of the troops, and the station of each general’s tent, with as much confidence as if he had himself been in the camp. Here was Cæsar’s prætorium; here was stationed Mandubrace, king ofLondon;[507]here were the quarters of M. Crassus, the quæstor; here was Cominus; there the Gaulish princes, &c. &c. It is but justice to Dr. Stukely’s memory to mention, that this account of Cæsar’s camp was not printed in his life-time. As he withheld it from the public, it is probable he was convinced that his imagination had carried him too far, on this subject. Dr. S. remarks, that the vallum thrown up in the civil war was in the fields next the duke of Bedford’s: he adds, that it was levelled after the Restoration, and that scarcely a trace of it was (when he wrote) visible, notwithstanding Cæsar’s camp remained in so perfect a state after an interval of 1800 years. Mr. Lysons does not suppose, that the entrenchment at theBrillwas thrown up by the Londoners in 1642, since the name denotes something moreancient;[508]but it certainly appears, by the diurnals published at the time, that entrenchments and ramparts were thrown up in the fields near Pancras-church, during the civil war. He thinks it not improbable, that the moated areas, above-mentioned, near the church, were the sites of the vicarage and rectory-house, which are mentioned in a survey of the parish of Pancrascirca1251.[509]This is certainly the most probable conclusion, and far superior to the wild chimeras of the learned doctor.

I will conclude this slight, and, I am aware, imperfect view of the various opinions, for and against, by observing, that I resided in Somers-town and its neighbourhood for a considerable period; I carefully watched every excavation made for sewers, foundations for houses, chapels, &c., but I never heard of any discoveries having been made. The place lies too low to have even been frequented by the Romans, more especially when the violence of the river of Wells is considered, which must have descended from the hills like a torrent, and have flooded the whole of the neighbourhood of Somers-town, Battle-bridge, &c.

I am, Sir, yours, &c.T. A.

Oct. 24, 1826.

Mean Temperature 41·12.

[503]See vol. i. col. 1493.[504]Gentleman’s Magazine.[505]On visiting this camp, I searched for the “Old Well in the Fosse;” judge my surprise, when I found a modern circular frame of wood sunk in the fosse to collect clear water for the use of bricklayers, &c. this is a specimen of artists “pretty bits.”[506]Alias—coinages of their own fancy.[507]The idea is ridiculous, that the prætorium of the Roman general should be placed in a swampy, low situation, while such an advantageous position on the high ground, on which St. Pancras-church stands, is given to a native prince; another circumstance is against the doctor’s hypothesis, that this was a Roman camp, viz. a running stream through it.[508]Dr. Stukely derives it from Bury Hill; but the lowness of the situation refutes such an etymology.[509]View of London, vol. iii. p. 343-344.

[503]See vol. i. col. 1493.

[504]Gentleman’s Magazine.

[505]On visiting this camp, I searched for the “Old Well in the Fosse;” judge my surprise, when I found a modern circular frame of wood sunk in the fosse to collect clear water for the use of bricklayers, &c. this is a specimen of artists “pretty bits.”

[506]Alias—coinages of their own fancy.

[507]The idea is ridiculous, that the prætorium of the Roman general should be placed in a swampy, low situation, while such an advantageous position on the high ground, on which St. Pancras-church stands, is given to a native prince; another circumstance is against the doctor’s hypothesis, that this was a Roman camp, viz. a running stream through it.

[508]Dr. Stukely derives it from Bury Hill; but the lowness of the situation refutes such an etymology.

[509]View of London, vol. iii. p. 343-344.

Messieurs Montgolfier, two brothers, paper-makers at Annonay in the department of Ardeche, in 1782 discovered the use of rarefied air in floating balloons; and on the 21st of November, 1783, the marquis d’Arlandes and M. Pilatre Rosier made the firstunconfinedaërial voyage in a machine called a “Montgolfier,” in honour of the inventors, to distinguish it from balloons made with inflammableair.[510]

Mean Temperature 40·27.

[510]Butler’s Chronological Exercises.

Towards the latter end of the seventeenth century, an entertainment was instituted, on the 22d of November, in commemoration of her, by many of the first rank in the kingdom; which was continued annually for a considerable time. A splendid entertainment was provided at Stationers’-hall, which was constantly preceded by a performance of vocal and instrumental music, by the most capital performers. This feast is represented by Mr. Motteux, in 1691, as “one of the genteelest in the world; there are no formalities nor gatherings like as at others, and the appearance there is splendid.” The words, which were always an encomium on their patroness, were set by Purcell, Blow, and others of the greatest eminence; and it became the fashion for writers of all ranks to celebrate saint Cecilia. Besides the odes to her by Dryden, and Pope, Addison, and Yalden, employed their talents on this subject. We have also odes to saint Cecilia by Shadwell, D’Urfey, and some still more indifferent poets. It appears by Mr. Motteux, that there were in 1691 “admirable concerts in Charles-street and York-buildings.”

On the anniversary of St. Cecilia, in 1697, a sermon was preached at St. Bride’s church by Dr. Brady, which he published under the title of “Church Music Vindicated.” The last account discovered by Mr. Nichols, of any entertainment to her memory at Stationers’-hall, is in Mr. Hughes’s ode in 1703. The festivity appears to have been also celebrated at Oxford, and to have been continued there longer. There are two odes to St. Cecilia; one, in 1707, composed by Mr. Purcell, the other, in 1708, by Dr. Blow, “both performed at St. Mary-hall, in Oxon, by Mr. Saunders and Mr. Court, assisted by the best voices and bands.” Mr. Addison’s ode was performed there in 1699; and he has “a song,” without date, on the sameoccasion.[512]

To the Editor of the Every-Day Book.

The “Cecilian Society,” established in 1785 by a few individuals, has continued, to the present day, to meet once a week for rehearsal, and once a fortnight for the public performance of vocal and instrumental music, chiefly sacred, by Handel, occasionally relieved by popular modern composition.

This society has been the school of eminent composers and performers: such as Barthelomon, Everett, Purkis, Banner, Busby, Griffin, Russel, Miss Bolton, Jacobs, Miss Gray, and many others; among whom are the brothers, the Mr. Nightingales, so highly esteemed in the musical world for their professional talent, and irreproachable demeanour.

The venerable president, Mr. Z. Vincent, is one of the old school of harmonists, and a man of letters. His heart and soul are identified in Handel’s oratorios, and his judgment continues unimpaired. A Mr. Edwards is another instance of attachment to the society, he having been a member upwards of twenty years. The great “unity” that has prevailed, and still prevails, in this society, is an example worthy of a niche in theEvery-Day Book. Their present performances are held at the “Albion Hall,” Moorfields, and well attended by the issue of “tickets.” In honour of this day, a grand miscellaneous concert is annually performed; many celebrated professionals attend, and the lovers of harmony never fail of having a high treat.

On the 22nd of November the sun enters Sagittarius.

According to an old magical MS. of the fourteenth century, an aspect of “Sagittary” seems to have dominion over dogs. “When you wish to enter where there are dogs; that they may not hinder you, make a tin image of a dog, whose head is erected towards his tail, under the first face ofSagittary, and say over it, ‘I bind all dogs by this image, that they do not raise their heads or bark;’ andenter where youplease.”[513]

Back to Index Next